Life Goes On....Are You Coming?

Mental meanderings on death, our reactions to it, and how we'd prefer to choose our own ending. (approx. 1340 words)

Submitted:Apr 20, 2012
Reads: 383
Comments: 2
Likes: 1

Life Goes On….Are you
Coming?

Death comes in such
a variety of packages that even when anticipated, predictable, or
inevitable, it still seems to pack a wallop usually associated
with surprises.

Those deaths that
sneak up on you, however, leave an imprint like a branding iron,
deep and permanent. Often on your heart, sometimes on your mind,
and every once in a while, on your ass. Only sociopaths seem to
go unscathed, consciously, from death's
sting.

I find how people
react to death to be revealing and informative. Death has come
out of the closet in this era. We know, often within minutes,
when someone passes. Much of the mystique has been removed, and
there's a lot to be said for demystifying death. I think people
tend to fear it less when it becomes an entity, more than an
abstract religious or philosophical construct. Religion has
contributed mightily to the confusing, frightening nature of
death, merely by associating it with the end of life, and the
beginning of a new existence. That dichotomy is a lot to expect
us humans to get our heads around.

The finality of
death is both jarring in its absolute conclusion, and comforting
in that we know it will happen to all of us. There is an odd
succor to be drawn from the inevitable. A peaceful resignation
and acquiescence to a higher authority, who, or what, ever it may
be. The emotional safety net of "strength in numbers' takes on an
ironic twist when death is seen as the one universal rallying
point for all of man.

I have seen people
respond serenely to the most gruesome, tragic death of a loved
one, and have also watched someone completely collapse in upon
themselves with no apparent perspective, as an elderly loved one
dies at the end of a long illness, and an even longer
life.

That second one
flummoxes me. I think of that reaction as almost contrived, as if
they have seen how people respond to death, and this is the only
way they can act, mirroring what they have seen. The wall of
denial is so thick and impenetrable, they choose the known
example of mourning instead of attempting to breach their own
defenses and delineate how they really
feel.

Guilt at not feeling
devastated at the death of a loved one often creates the obvious
over-reaction. You can usually spot them. The wailers, the
non-stop sobbing, the lowered brim of the inappropriate hat to
cover the darting eyes seeking to make sure everyone knows they
are distraught. Look for those people as they elbow their way to
the front row at the trust fund meeting in the near future; held
in the wood paneled attorney's office, they are suddenly dry-eyed
and cold hearted, demanding their more-than-fair-share,
exclaiming 'hey, look how much I loved him, I was inconsolable
at his funeral'.

Ah, cynicism, thy
real name is reality. The hypocrisy of our reaction to death is
often hilarious, but rarely non-existent.

I've found it be a
luxury when death can be anticipated and I'm allowed to prepare
for it. I've had the stomach punch deaths in my life, and I'll
take the 90 year old relative succumbing after six years of
extended hospice care, every time. It's like comparing a punch in
the nose to a slap in the face.

True shock,
devastation and pain are wrenching and often elicit surprising
thoughts and emotions attached to such an overt, but genuine
reaction. I found myself struggling mightily with forgiveness,
for both myself and my father, after his
suicide.

Flailing about with
this nebulous, hard-to-grasp concept, I remember finally
embracing the fact that though nonmalleable, forgiveness for me
meant not beating up on myself, or my father, for his
destructive, selfish, and shortsighted act. Suicide is man's way
of giving one final finger to his enemies and demons. On paper,
it sounds fair and almost sensible. To whatever face-filled
canvas my dad flipped his final bird, I know my mug was on there
somewhere, though any anger at me was indirect and had little to
do with me or my behavior, but more to do with what a son
represented to my father, deep in his
soul.

A threat? To his
manhood? To his dominance? To his autocratic
control?

Check, check, check
and check.

I know a friend,
actually my very first love interest, who recently lost her
father in his early 90s. He'd been ill with dementia and assorted
maladies, and had basically been dying for a couple of years, and
could have gone at any of those 1,051,897 minutes. He died right
around Christmas time. A close knit Italian family, they all live
within minutes of each other in Las Vegas. And her mom is of a
similar age and in failing health as well.

My friend is
devastated. Floored. Knocked out. Grief ravaged. A wreck. In
addition to her ailing mother, she has a younger brother and an
older sister, but she is clearly the remaining matriarch of the
family. There was and is a very real, concrete need for her to
step up and be the strong one, and yet she wallows, to this day,
in sadness; emotionally dismantled, needing, more than providing,
succor and strength.

I know this may
sound harsh, but I am more curious than critical of her behavior.
I don't believe she fits into the guilt category mentioned above.
She adored her father. He was a good man. Worthy of grieving and
deep-seated acknowledgment of the void he left. But she clearly
did not prepare herself for his absence. Why? More specifically,
how could one NOT anticipate the impending loss of a man in his
situation? She is a devout Catholic, where one's mortality is
often an undercurrent to everyday life, yet she ignored her
training.

Denial is all I can
come up with. This is hardly breaking new ground. Most humans, at
one time or another, have embraced denial instead of facing
death, their own or someone else's.

Every time a
cigarette is lit and inhaled, ranch dressing dipped into, bacon
wrapped around ground beef; every time a blunt is fired up, a
Martini sipped, a busy thoroughfare crossed, unprotected sex
enjoyed; are we not tempting fate, are we not giving our own
indignant, rebellious finger to the Gods?

Suicide has many
layers, methods and modalities. From guns, ropes and trains, to
the more subtle, less direct modes listed above, aren't we all
killing ourselves, a little bit at a time? The clock never stops
ticking. A clock is the least punished thief in the history of
man kind, stealing our lives right before our
eyes.

Living well is the
best revenge, I have found. I have gone back and forth about my
own demise, unsure as to how I want to die. Sudden? Drawn
out?

Sudden, but without
violent or shocking overtones, would be my
choice.

Any form of hospice
care, where I'm allowed to mull over my life, finger the regrets
floating around in my mind like potential missiles, or do any
in-depth assessment, is not acceptable. Shit, I do that now,
while I'm upright, living and breathing. I know where I stand
with most people. I definitely know where I stand with me. Death
showing up on my doorstep suddenly will not change
that.

I don't want a
supine therapy session with myself while my mortality hangs in
the balance, wondering why I did what I did, said what I said,
and kicked myself like I did? That emotional masturbation session
is not how I want to spend my final weeks, days or
hours.

Take me in between
thoughts, when my mind is on vacation. It's not often, but I'm
hoping fate finds that little window of opportunity, and pulls me
through it, head first.

I've analyzed things
my entire life. My final moments should involve a grin, the
mental image of a beautiful girl, an ice cold martini, and my
ultimate metaphor for death: a setting
sun.